


alter

by en passant (corinthian)



Category: Fate/Grand Order
Genre: F/M, Gore, Snuff, Torture, body mod, dragon dick, noncon/dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-06-08 17:47:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6866869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corinthian/pseuds/en%20passant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>to change; become different or modified.</p><hr/><p>nc/dc, body mod, torture, gore, dragon dick, snuff</p>
            </blockquote>





	alter

She cuts her finger on the jagged edge of his broken horns, deliberately. He flinches, feels an apology boil up in the back of his throat even though there's no reason to say it. 

"Isn't this an impossible situation? Isn't this another day of impurities and sin? Surely, if He exists and He is watching over this world then He will strike me dead where I stand." She laughs, presses her bleeding finger to his lips. "How far do you think my justice can go against the will of God? How many of His heroes should I take?"

He can't answer. Not after she staked his wings and tail to the ground and cut out his tongue. Not after she scorched the inside of his mouth with fire, then her own kisses and tongue. Affection. Cruelty. Justice. Heresey. She embodies it all.

And, of course, she is the dragon witch. So when she beckons, pulls at some part of him (in his blood, grafted to his back, rooted deep in the base of his spine, now, like a burning brand) to obey, he can only do as she asks.

He opens his mouth and her fingers slide over his teeth, the front human ones, the elongated canines that he is certain have grown longer and sharper just in her presence and to the back of his throat. Past the stub of tongue, navigating blisters and blood pockets.

"Hey, Siegfried, won't you answer me?"

His throat works with an answer but she interrupts any sound that may have come out, spreading her fingers, stretching his jaw. 

"You're not the one I'm looking for. Despite being the 'true' hero, you're not mine. Don't you know there's value in being false? That the ugliness of heroism, believe, faith — have you experienced the other side? Vengenace, hatred, corruption! Ha! Always said with such a dirty tone of voice, but those blackened things are far more 'true' than the lies He might have fed you to keep you comfortable. God is good and all that is good is His, so what is left for me?"

Blood drips from her finger, down his throat. She admits, then: "Ah... I'm so lonely."

His hands ache, the bones of his fingers feel as though they are splintering and he can feel them push through his flesh. His vision sharpens, over-saturates and a pressure builds behind his eyes. (He's changing, again.) The blood pooled beneath his back is all at once too cold and too tacky, the only warmth he can feel comes from her weight, straddled across him or her hand still in his mouth or the burning blood that he swallows.

* * *

Curse of Resentment, an Alliance of Hate.

The Dragon Witch has a unique skill beyond just the control of dragons, but she also bears the skill to enhance dragons. The same could be said in enhancing the dragonlike trait in others.

Isn't it just kind of a selfish modification in the end...?

* * *

The horn she broke off — shattered it with her sword — has regrown. It split and twisted and grew curled and sharp. What had been two distinct curved horns became a small cluster, branching like wicked antlers. The horns and scales bloomed down the left side of his face, ridging and breaking through the skin around his cheekbone and eye.

"Siegfried," she addresses him, her hand grips the base of his right wing where it meets his back. The previous scattering of scales has spread, disappearing under his armor and crawling up his back, only thinning near the leaf mark and his shoulder blades.

"Yes." His answer is soft and slightly muffled. The tongue that regenerated in his mouth, thanks to her blood, is different than the one he had before. Siegfried tastes soot, blood and the distinct saccharine of her magic. His canines also changed, truly fangs and the new flesh of his gums and throat is sensitive.

"Will you make my wishes come true?" Her voice is bitter, it's ironic. This kind of question has a guaranteed answer from him, and she already knows where their story ends.

The answer is no. Simply, what she wishes for isn't something he can provide. But that kind of impossibility doesn't exist for him. The logical fact isn't something he ignores, it enters his mind and he considers it. But there's only one response he can give.

"I will do my best to."

She strips her armor off, leaving only the boots, black dress and the chains around her neck. It should make her less intimidating, a young girl before the beast, but if anything it's as if her armor had distracted from her true power. The armor joins her already discarded gloves, tossed to the side as if it has no value.

"Isn't that great? Such a hero will try his best for me. Don't worry, I won't be so cruel as to not support you. After all, in this light, the gold in your eyes is quite becoming." She urges his wing open, fingers firm and light, moving across the bone and digit, the memgrane and the small hooked claws at the joints. "I will remake you and remake you and remake you until we're both freed from this wretched existence. That is my retaliation to His goodness."

The fire from her hand is so hot that it burns through the membrane of his wing in seconds. The muscle scorches, blackenes, crumbles and reveals bone that chars instantly. The flames spread down to his back, over his shoulder, burn the cloth and melt the metal. He makes a keening noise, not quite a scream, made too far in the back of his throat, too primal, really.

It's his restraint, not her hold on him, that keeps him from lashing out.

"It's another gift of mine. Abnormal strength, a wicked temperament, the power to subdue dragons. . . in all ways. Surely, you must have realized, or were you thinking that your thick hide would keep you safe? Ha! Didn't you learn from the first time I impaled you? Are you so eager for another go? Don't you wish to be something more than a pin cushion?"

In the ground near their feet, in a circle, the points of black iron stakes emerge. The same stakes she had driven through his wings and tail, earlier. 

"Does it make you happy, to think of me that way?" He knows the answer, too. Because she stands so close to him and edges her fingertips under the seam of where the metal has melted and his skin. She doesn't pick at it, just moves her finger across the blistered flesh and melted armor. But her face is unhappy and her voice is bored when she answers.

"Make me happy?" She laughs. "Yeah, I'm happy. I'm thrilled with you here."

She throws her head back and laughs, before her hand forms and fist and she strikes him. Once across the face, once in the chest, and then again her fist swings for his face. He catches her hand, not to stop the blow but to hold her attention. To offer to her the reassurance that he can.

"Then call for me again. I'll come to you in as many forms and as many times as you wish for."

He is asking her to remake him, if he isn't to her liking.

Her laugh stretches her smile, gives it more of a predatory edge. He is still holding her hand, cradling her fist gently. It's a paradox, the baptism she has given each and every single Servant that has been hers and what he is. Her wish granting machine and her impossible, incompatible wish

"Fine. I'll continue changing you until there's nothing recognizable. Isn't corruption also against God? Our father who is still in Heaven, a negligent parent."

(Isn't this at odds with a sense of 'justice'?)

(Isn't this a perfect fit with her sense of 'justice'?)

"Everything is yours."

He releases her hand. It's different, this time. She doesn't hurl the burning stakes at him, shove them through his body swiftly and with nothing but blind rage. Instead she holds out a hand, plucks one from the ground as it rises to meet her and sets the edge against the base of his ribcage.

"Enduring is also a virtue, for some." It shouldn't be so easy to injure him, it has been a long time since someone has cut him so easily. The sharp point cuts him, far too easily, drawing forth blood and pain and a dull burning sensation. Blood wells up but then blacks and burns from the heat. A small part of his mind has to wonder how he — invulnerable, strong, a Servant and even before that, in a way, untouchable — could be hurt so easily but she held the black-hot stake in her hands without being burnt. "I think it's overrated." She traces down from his ribs, to the edge of his clothing, where the fire had yet to reach.

He says nothing. Not when she sets the stake point against the top of his thigh, burning a hole through his trousers and not when the tip reached his skin and not when she pushed it down through his muscle to the bone. He didn't hide his pain from her, either, the single remaining wing curling down closer to his back, his tail lashing and small soft noises escaping his mouth. She pushes him to the ground, forces him to kneel and drives the stake all the way through his thigh and through his calf, into the earth.

"Destroying someone, that suits a girl like me." Her voice is almost wistful but she doesn't let him respond, not yet, two more stakes are driven through the same leg, pinning him to the ground.

". . . not really," he says, finally.

It makes her angry, it makes her feel something for him, it makes her remeber the whole point of this.

"I'm more suited for what? Will you say kindness, creation, a soft gentle touch?" She doesn't murmur or whisper the words, she spits them. She doesn't hike the skirt of her dress but instead just straddles him, sinks down into his lap and anchors herself by holding his horns. Her hips rock against his, an imitation of tenderness.

". . . not really," he says, again. The rest of the words are stuck between his teeth and they won't ever make it out of his mouth. Any kind of reassurance, he knows, she'll find false. Any kind of dissent, she'll take as rebellion. (Perhaps, too, she seeks both of them. The kind of conflict that tells her she's alive, that sharpens her justice against the world.)

"Kiss me." She demands. "But don't even think of touching me otherwise."

They may as well be absolute orders. So he does. 

He should apologize for being clumsy, because his tongue is new, a little longer and a little more slender than it had been before and the fork in the end seems unwieldy against her far more human tongue. He tastes her blood because she tears her tongue across his fangs and he mumbles a _sorry_ into her mouth, and for that, she bites him. His own blood tastes sour in his mouth. She grinds up against him, her hands slide down the length of his horns, to his scalp, then down to the back of his head.

Her fingertips press uncomfortably hard against his skull and his neck and he's far too aware of her body. The way her chest brushes up against his, her weight across his hips and cock, even with the fabric between them, her arms across his shoulders, her hands reaching down his back. It as though she wordlessly commands him. Her touch arches his back, his wing unfurls, trembles, curls in around her back like a protective embrace, but not touching, even as his hands stay hanging down at his sides.

"Should I even ask what you want?" She breaks the kiss, just to ask, rising up so she can trace her fingers even further down his spine.

"I want — " his breath catches when her finger investigates the outer rim of the leaf mark on his back. Like a scar it has puckered tough edges but the center is soft and vulnerable. He tenses. "I want — "

She doesn't let him finish. She knows what he will say and it will sour her mood. She pushes with her thumbnail and if she were a normal person it would be unpleasant, but hardly painful. However, she's Avenger, a bitter girl with freakish strength — her nail breaks the skin. He bleeds.

The word _stop_ might have entered his mind, briefly, it may even have sat at the back of his throat but there's no way he can deny her. She hooks her thumbnail under his skin, words her thumb under it and almost caresses the raised skin but all he can feel is the lancing burning pain and deep set, familiar feeling: he's close to dying.

Her order stays, he doesn't touch her, other than with his lips and tongue but his body shudders and twists. The pained keening noise he makes is almost a groaned rumble and she can feel it through their touching bodies. His jaw keeps twitching, almost snapping shut in a bite, but of course, he's trying his best for her. His tail curls, twists and bangs against the ground, thrashing as he feels her invade his back.

She leans back, breathless and laughing.

"Ah! This is the best! You're so _tame_! I'll reward you." She almost stands, giving him just enough room. In the same motion she rolls her hips, it's a lewd invitation. "Open up, I'll touch you properly."

"Instead I should — " she cuts him off, abruptly pulling her fingers from his back and shoving them into his mouth. She grips the base of his tongue with her index finger and thumb, the rest of her digits stretching out to the back of his throat. He gags, spit welling up around her hand.

"Shut up. Shut up! You're mine, I _changed_ you! Even if you live just for me, even if you're nothing more than _mine_ I don't want to hear that stupid drivel from before! Say, don't you get it? The difference of being reborn like this, being called out from within yourself. I altered you. Shouldn't we match? Shouldn't you be made more in my image?"

The question, really, is: shouldn't you be my ally, forever.

It's true that she did remake parts of him, that she is a witch in every sense of the word. It is also true that he is still a Heroic Spirit. Still, Siegfried. He shuts his eyes, briefly, swallows his own spit and does as she's asked. She meets his gaze, evenly and challengingly. She is steel and fire and a commander. The flipside, of course, to a saint blessed with battle knowledge is the scourge of war, a harbinger and ever victorious flag stained black with dried blood.

She didn't give him enough room to unfasten his trousers and pull them down, just enough to unbuckle his belt and open his pants. "Come on now," she says in his ear, removing her hand from his mouth to reach down between them and runs her slick finger underneath his length. Without much coaxing she tugs his cock out. "Hahaha! Was this my curse or the one you carried before?"

He doesn't answer, immediately. She hardly looks at his dick, her eyes focused on his face instead, even as she thumbs the ridges on the underside, the speckling of scales and raised veining.

"Well?" She urges, pulling on him in even strokes. Even though her tone of voice is lazy, her hand grips hard, painfully strong.

"— from before." He can't lie to her. He knows she doesn't want to hear that answer, and perhaps she wouldn't even know if he had lied. But he can't.

"Hah, I knew it. You're holding back on me, that's fine. Isn't it?"

"I'm not holding back."

"Except for when I tell you to, hm?" She settles herself in his lap again, letting his cock press up against the fabric of her panties. "You can't help yourself."

"You don't want me to," his hands raise, and it seems he wants to cup her face. Fingers with nails too long and claw-like hover near. "That isn't what you wish for." She tilts her head, letting her cheek rest against his scaled palm. 

"Ha! What a statement." But she doesn't argue. Instead she sinks down a little, his cock strains against her underwear, pressing up against her. She can feel every ridge and rocks against him, creating friction. It's not long before he's erect and she's wet. His breath comes raggedly, his fingers flexing against the side of her face but he's still not gripping, not holding onto her hip like he wants either. Instead he's tense and shaking, pupils blown, tail lashing. "Do you want me to let you in? We could share secrets! Haha! What a joke, that kind of gesture doesn't suit me. I'm a cruel girl."

She cuts off her own tirade, pressing her lips to his, grinding against him hard. He groans into the kiss, almost arching away from her. The force of her thrusts is bruising, but each time she rises up, not letting him enter her more than just a little, the fabric of her panties scraping against both of them.

His fingers flex against her cheek, just barely scratching her skin and his wing snaps out into a full stretch. Siegfried says something into her mouth, a warning or a moan or something else entirely. Perhaps even a protest but she doesn't pay any heed to it. He comes against her thighs, just as she rises up on her knees. He gasps for breath even as she steals more from him, pushing down against the mess between them, brutally riding him until she also comes, biting down on his lower lip hard enough to make him bleed.

For a moment, she settles against his chest. It's comfortable for them both and Siegfried calms his breathing, feels his own blood drip down his chin and meets her eyes. Her expression is complicated. She is almost placid looking, almost vulnerable, but her eyes are open a little too wide and the sleepy smile on her face is just a little too knowing.

"My final wish for you," she says, "For the next version of you. Is to cast off this pitiful shell. To transcend the piece of shit known as Siegfried. Who needs a knight like you? So pure and ready to ruin. I wish for the next dragon killer to be someone worth of carrying my banner. Something selfish and cruel. I wish for you to have a wish just for yourself."

She places her hands on his cheeks, both of them. Then his horns and then sliding down through his hair. Her touch is gentle on his shoulderblades and then down his back. He knows what is coming and so it's in that moment he also ignores her orders. He drapes his arms around her and curls his wing in around them both. It's an embrace, holding her close.

"Next time," she says, before her fire burns him through the torn leaf mark on his back. It sears under his skin and through his muscle and bone. "You're welcome to think poorly of me. I am a witch, after all." Her fire burns bright and red and gold, mixed with the gold of his body fading away.

His last thought is that he's sorry for leaving her alone. This is certainly not what she wished for.


End file.
